count the holes they leave
by TolkienGirl
Summary: In which English class continues to be uncomfortably close to Tim's life. (Set during 1x11's glorious Tim and Landry friendship, with Tim (sort of) being academically motivated. For a little while, at least. No slash. Mature themes and language.)


**A/N: So, I love combining Tim and academics. I think he's so much smarter than everyone believes, and he has a lot of sensitivity that literature could bring out, with proper development. So I have a lot of fun forcing that out of him with the help of Mrs. T's ultimatum.**

 **The poem that I found is by Amiri Baraka, and I included several passages from it in here.**

 **WARNING: Suicidal themes discussed in this.**

It's a week after the glorious B-, which Tim milks for all it's worth to Mrs. Taylor, when she asks (which she does, right on schedule, with that no-nonsense tilt of her head that Tim was completely unable to charm her out of last time).

You'd think—or maybe you wouldn't, since everyone knows the academic side of high-school is hell—that the teacher would take a step back, bask in the moment of your success. But no, fresh off the dock, there's another assignment.

An essay.

He considers reverting to his old ways and getting on the rally girls to write it, but there's too much at stake and he has the feeling that Mrs. Taylor is keeping tabs on them in her off-time.

Of course, Landry is feverishly excited. "This is the next step," he crows, when they cross paths in the hallway. His voice makes Tim's head hurt, or maybe a hangover plus Landry's enthusiasm is the problem. He can't blame it all on the kid. This comes so easy to Landry.

"Catch you at lunch," he says, and Landry bounds off, joyful over the prospect of imparting more of his scholarly wisdom.

The essay's on a poem, of all things. Named, like all poems are, with a freakishly long and weird title. "Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note."

Tim's never been comfortable with the topic, particularly. Not like he considers it, but it's—relevant. There's a measurable distance between how many it takes to drink yourself under the table and how many it takes to drink yourself to death. He has no plans on crossing over, but sometimes he wonders how close he comes.

(His mom came close, once, when he was six. She was flat-out on the floor, still as death but still warm. Pills with her whiskey, Billy had said. She left the year after that and for all Tim knows, she could have crossed the line some time ago.)

Back focused on the damn poem—and in a worse mood, for a number of reasons (Tim likes making memories, of course, but most of the time he hates remembering), he glances it over. It's short enough that he won't trouble Landry to read it aloud.

Or maybe he will, just to get a rise out of him.

The first line hits him like a punch to the gut.

 _Lately, I've become accustomed to the way  
The ground opens up and envelopes me._

He thinks of Lyla's contempt for him, even though they were both at fault. Thinks of the sickness of betrayal twisting his innards, thinks of how Jay's fist hadn't hurt as much as the look on his face. Thinks of the whispers around school, which don't really faze him, and the team smashing up his truck, which does.

He's accustomed, alright. Seems like he's slogging through a mire of sins wherever he walks.

 _Enveloped_.

If he told Landry any of this (which he will not), the kid would be all over it. Great stuff to do the essay song and dance over. Raw and realistic.

Tim folds up his copy of the poem. He doesn't feel like talking to Landry at the moment, not when he's gone all reminiscent and ridiculously emo—he's better off tackling this on his own, for the time being.

It means time at the library. Tim can't remember the last time he set foot in the place, considering that the school librarian is a sour middle-aged lady, and he has no other incentive.

Until now.

He sits at the computer for a while, fingers poised on the keys, and looks over the poem again. There's not much of it—a few verses—and most of it doesn't really apply to his life or experience. But the lines that do seem to stab at him.

How the hell do you fill twenty volumes anyway? How many people would you need to explain it to? And if you needed twenty freaking volumes, wouldn't that be a clear sign that words weren't enough?

He shuts up, at least, more than this poet. Nobody can hold that against him. When he's screwed up, for real, he doesn't try to make excuses. Doesn't whine.

 _You want a medal for that, Riggins? You want a medal for not complaining?_

He doesn't want much of anything, for himself at least. He wouldn't even ask for the chance to explain. He just wants order restored, order and justice.

And justice might screw him over, deservedly, but at least it might be fair to somebody else.

 _Things have come to that._ A simple line, but damn if it isn't the truth.

Tim sighs, and starts typing. It's a bunch of BS, because he's too proud or too hurt to go below the surface, but whenever he fits the quotes in they feel right.

They feel right, even if nothing else does.

 _And now, each night I count the stars.  
And each night I get the same number.  
And when they will not come to be counted,  
I count the holes they leave._


End file.
